Hellfire
by Darth Lawyer
Summary: Padmé did not die. She is the Emperor's secret prisoner, and he wants more than an apology for the times she thwarted his plans. He will not be satisfied until he rules her completely – mind, body, and soul. Will she fall into his sinister trap?


**_I. Fire_**

He had her at last, and she would not escape, alive or dead. She had _so much_ to atone for.

The chain joining her wrists, in addition to restraining her movements, served as an inescapable reminder of the fact that she was a prisoner, _his_ prisoner. If she shut her eyes, she could hide from the sight of where she was and – he smiled – the color of the walls. But she could not avoid feeling the metal against her skin, evidence that she was completely in his power. She could not pretend she was free.

How long he had waited to see her like this, trapped at last in shackles she couldn't unlock with a hairpin; he had made sure of that. This moment should have come many years ago. She had delayed it too long.

She would pay for that.

Seeing her chained was not enough. He wished to smother the defiance that blazed, undaunted, in her eyes; to see the fear she was too insolent to feel even now when she was at his mercy.

He had almost let her die, distracted as he had been by nearly losing another apprentice, another decade of assiduous manipulation, to Kenobi's blade. Vader's shortcoming had been the same as Maul's: carelessness induced by an excess of pride. Pride that should have been justified. A Jedi should have been no match for any apprentice of his.

She had been on the threshold of death when he had reached through space to tether her soul to her body and her body to life with the power that had been the last of Darth Plagueis' teachings. He had allowed her to hide with the rebels, waiting patiently for destiny to deliver her into his hands.

She was one of those who contested his supremacy over all beings. The other traitors would die, but for her he had other plans. He had decided that death would not be an adequate punishment for her the very first time he had been required to bow to her, a mere lowborn _girl_, a puppet queen he had seated on the throne of their home world. Her unexpected victory over the Trade Federation – over _him_, in fact – had further fed his desire for revenge, as had every subsequent occasion she had defied him.

She still refused to utter his rightful title. Not mere rudeness – she had the manners of a queen. This was willful rebellion, and it amused him, because in his visions he saw her begging for his forgiveness. She would regret every look of defiance and every time she had inadvertently thwarted him in the name of some ridiculous political ideal. She would learn that she, like everything else, existed to serve him.

He raised a hand, concentrating. When lightning crackled at his fingertips, he saw her eyes widen involuntarily, not in fear but in amazement. Never seen anything like this, had she? How amusing that even she, recalcitrant rebel leader that she was, reacted with helpless awe to this display of his Sith powers.

Oh, he knew it would take more than pain to subjugate her tenacious spirit. Pain would, in effect, add a martyr's zeal to her resistance. To conquer her, subtler methods would be required. It would be a welcome diversion. Ruling the galaxy was less boring than any other occupation, but not quite stimulating _enough_.

But for now, he would not deny himself the pleasure of her suffering. He had long desired to introduce her to the excruciating caress of Force lightning.

He directed it at her with a slight gesture of his hand, holding his breath in anticipation.

Alarm replaced the surprised fascination in her eyes, before they narrowed in pain as the first glowing arc reached her, the force of it throwing her to the floor.

His breathing quickened as he watched her brought down by his power, purple fire dancing over her body. The image was just short of perfection. This hideous rebel combat outfit concealed some of her natural beauty, and that simply could not be allowed. Something would have to be done about it... _Yes_... That would be the perfect solution. Next time, perhaps. There was no need to rush, after all. She was his now, and they had all the time in the galaxy.

Vader would not interfere. It had been easy to convince him of her death at his hand.

She looked sublime in agony, with her face contorted and tears leaking from her eyes. Yet she tried to remain still, and refused to scream. It made him smile. Her will was almost as strong as his.

The stronger her will, the more gratifying his victory would be.

Even _this_ was not enough. He wanted her suffering to be infinite, everlasting, and he wanted her to understand why she deserved it. He wanted her to acknowledge his legitimate authority over the galaxy and over her.

He wanted her to beg for what she would never receive: mercy and forgiveness. To repair her shattered spirit only to break it again and _again_.

And so he would. Her will was strong, but undermined by the weakness she considered to be a strength: compassion, the instrument with which he would engineer her perdition. She would assist in her own downfall, just as she had in the Republic's demise and her dear _husband's_ turn to the dark side. Through her he had acquired an apprentice and would in time acquire another, younger and more powerful. Through her he would crush the rebellion once and for all. It was one of his most ingenious plans, and he would enjoy every step of it almost as much as the prize that would be his at the culmination, the reality sweeter than any vision.

Now as he held her captive in a universe of agony, every moment felt like an eternity, to both of them. He was as lost in her suffering as she was. He never wanted it to end...

It would be disappointing, however, for her to die before her debt was paid in full. _She owes me more than this_... Reluctantly, he stopped the flow of Force lightning. _Much more._

She lay panting upon the stone floor, her body too weak to move but her gaze scornful and accusing. Foolish rebel. She should have found it an honor to suffer for his pleasure, to be the object of his attention no matter what form it took. With proper training, she would learn to see the grave error of her ways.

As soon as the pain subsided, she hurried to stand, unwilling to let him keep such a significant height advantage over her. The chain clinked as she moved – a pleasant sound, but not as pleasant as her voice would be, imploring him, calling him _Majesty_.

Her limbs were trembling; she had to lean on the wall for support, but she held her chin obstinately high. Such a proud woman. She did not know that soon she would prostrate herself before him of her own volition, and in a desperate attempt at negotiation, offer him everything she now denied him. Everything and _more_. Not even in her darkest nightmares could she fathom the price she would be prepared to pay. She clung to her pride now, yet she was ever ready to forfeit it for what she cared about. Oh, _how_ she would forfeit it...

She glared up at him, tears glistening on her cheeks. "You are delusional if you think this strategy is going to succeed," she spat. Her lips were painted scarlet with her blood. She had bitten her tongue in her effort to endure the galaxy's most painful torture silently. "I will not be induced by _any_ means to betray what I believe in."

He laughed. It would be truly a pleasure to defeat such an opponent. Not that he would stop at defeating her. He would not be satisfied until he ruled every thought in her mind.

"If only you could _see_ your future as I do..."

Not a muscle shifted in her face. Fierce eyes stared out of a stony mask of strength. Yet he could sense her torment, spreading through the air like an inebriating perfume. "I will _not_ –"

"– give in to pain," he took the words from her mind, to prove that he still could, and reveled in the bitterness that the thought of their erstwhile _friendship_ caused to well up within her. He had had her prison painted as red as the rooms in which they had worked together so that she would have no respite from the memories. "Again you underestimate me, my dear. I know pain strengthens your resolve." In this they were alike.

He yanked her forward by her long brown hair. It _was_ as soft and silky as it looked. He had wondered how it would feel crushed in his fist. "This is not a means to some ulterior end. It_ is_ the end. I simply enjoy seeing you suffer," he whispered intimately in her ear.

A delightful tremor traversed her body: at last, a crack in her impressive composure.

"To destroy you, I shall use other, more effective ways," he confided. There had been a time when she had admired his confidence; now let it fuel her nightmares!

He would show her whose will was the strongest. It was she who was delusional, if she believed she could win.

He _would_ have what he desired from her, which was nothing less than _everything_. He would possess her utterly. She would surrender to him in body, mind, and soul, in that order. He had foreseen it.

* * *

**Author's note: **And that was the beginning of what's going to be one of the darkest, most twisted fanfics ever written. I had to do some really nasty psychology research to write the following chapters, because this plot bunny just wouldn't leave me alone.

In the next chapter, we are going to jump back in time to Padmé's time as one of the leaders of the Rebel Alliance and its most cunning strategist. She is the one in the Rebellion who best knows the enemy. We'll see her throwing herself into "work" to forget her sorrows, which is what she has always done and she probably would have ended up doing if she had survived _Revenge of the Sith_. She'll keep taking on risky missions with no concern for her safety, again like she has always done, until she walks into a trap.

I would love to hear what you thought of this part. Too dark or not dark enough?

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the _Star Wars_ franchise. This is a work of fan fiction. No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.


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